


Romanticism

by 3minswriting, trustmeallnight



Category: NU'EST
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Fluff, M/M, husband is dongho, minron on their quest to find a husband
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:54:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26081506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3minswriting/pseuds/3minswriting, https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustmeallnight/pseuds/trustmeallnight
Summary: Two princes have arrived in the kingdom of Lutea to attend Prince Dongho's wedding.(The snippets of Lutea's adored prince falling for his second crown(s).)
Relationships: Hwang Minhyun/Kang Dongho | Baekho, Kang Dongho | Baekho/Aaron Kwak | Aron
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20
Collections: Nu'fics x The Parallel





	Romanticism

**Author's Note:**

> tman strikes again with my jelly in hand we love<33 anyway im basically writing to you so how do you feel mins? ʕ•ᴥ• ʔ
> 
> (﹡ꑓ ︿ ꑓ`﹡) you know me, always nervous and sleepy and smitten with you~
> 
> perfect!!! this was so fun to write with u hope we can do it again without the whole fuckfest of this fest :))))
> 
> we did it, we really made it this far im ;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;
> 
> mann ok this was fun! cant wait to see whats next for us! i know what ill be doing as fall falls upon us pack up the sundress and pull out the tissues, dear
> 
> yes dear, and you be ready to catch the cherry blossom petals when they finally begin to bloom after a long winter

For as long as Prince Dongho can remember, he has been taught by books, advisors, and his parents that the role of royalty is to be a refuge for their people. A place where, when the burdens of life become too great or their responsibilities as plentiful as the leaves falling in autumnal breezes, all could gather to seek guidance and comfort. He believes firmly in this idea. The crown that would eventually grace his black curls was to him not valuable for the remarkable jewels that stoned it, but for the hopes and dreams of all those people in the lands of Lutea who looked to it for leadership.

But there are times when Dongho seeks his own refuge.

Throughout the royal castle grounds there are throne rooms, glittering white halls, secluded anterooms, grand stairwells and concealed servant staircases, well-stocked larders and greater treasuries. From the smallest nooks to the highest balconies, which overlook the sprawling green gardens lush with lutean flowers and countless gifted plants cultivated from international allies, Dongho has explored them all.

This castle is his home.

It is in these rooms that he has spent all the years of his life.

Yet he has not found a space that is purely his own, a place for comfort and respite.

That all changes the day two princes arrive:

One arrives from the Kingdom of Adanfyros, a Prince of Lilies whose refined features and fair skin were as breathtaking as a blooming field in Spring's bountiful blessing. A royal second in line to the inheritance of the crown in a land only a few leagues from Lutean borders. A small nation of plenty, with a noble history of allyship spoilt by a foolish decision to support an enemy nation and snubbing Dongho’s own homelands. One that would cause many hopeful hearts to break.

The other has travelled far further, arriving from the distant shores of the kingdom known as Malion. A Prince of Waves, whose golden locks and handsome smile contained all the exotic mystery of the fathomless oceans he crossed to be here. An heir to an advanced nation many Luteans were suspicious of and preferred to keep distance from. They do not share a language, nor culture or history, but a union between the two Kingdom's princes might finally reduce the tension separating them all.

Within four castle walls, three princes meet, join, and create an entirely new space between them that is wholly their own.

A place Dongho is torn over where, and to whom, he truly belongs.

* * *

_{The Greeting Hall.}_

The door clicks open with just a simple turn, the golden doorknob weightless under Dongho’s hand as he breezes past the doorway.

“Oh,” the man on the chair startles lightly out of his lonesome gaze, “prince.”

“Prince Aron,” Dongho greets, bowing at the stiff bend of a waist and meeting at the small, crowded white table. "Welcome to Lutea."

Aaron, hands previously perched on his small lap and folded neatly on top of each other, tips his chin up and smiles. It’s with slow and careful movements that the older prince reaches out for Dongho’s limp hand.

“Your kingdom is beautiful. You as well,” Aaron says as his eyes meet Dongho’s. “Even better in person.”

Softly, Aaron brushes a small mouth against smooth skin. Red lightly smears against the back of Dongho’s hand, dragging out until it turns pink and Aaron’s chosen another patch of unblemished skin to mark.

A final, warm press against Dongho’s fourth finger has Aaron releasing the hand and watching as tinted skin sways back down to nervously rest against navy pants.

“Thank you, your highness,” Dongho says. His cheeks feel softer than before, his nose tickling to scrunch up to chase away the jitters that run down his arms and to his red skin.

_“Aaron.”_

“A-ron.”

Aaron tilts his head, smile amused and tugging at his thin lips before nodding.

“Sure,” he says, and the guard in the corner steals his eyes as he walks up to the pair, _“that’s what you’ll say at the altar, no?”_

Both of the Luteans question the foreign prince, and all he does is raise inquisitive eyebrows up at the broad-shouldered knight.

“So,” Aaron slightly grunts as he pulls himself up from the cushioned seat, hands coming up to smooth his jacket and brush at an outstretched elbow from the host prince, “what are my activities today?”

If he’s going to earn himself a groom, Aaron will do it right.

* * *

** [The Courtyard.] **

It was impossible to forget the first time he’d met his betrothed at eighteen. All day the palace was abuzz with excitement, the patter of servants’ feet filling the halls as everything was being prepared, cleaned, polished, buffed, and dusted within an inch of its life. Dongho’s appearance had not been any exception to this manic frenzy - for three days before the official visit, the Queen mother had been adamant that he be primped and painted and perfect, “He is to be your husband when both of you are of the marrying age!” she had snapped when Dongho complained of the ridiculous lengths the poor maids were undertaking in an attempt to straighten his curls and applying powders and creams to his face, “it is necessary to therefore present your best self.” 

He did not see how this would help. The young man looking back in the mirror did look like himself, Dongho supposed, turning his chin and observing how the light seemed to catch on the subtle grey stripe winged at the outer corners of his eyes and the added pink to the apples of his cheek, but it did not really look _honest_. The Dongho here in an extravagant white and scarlet jacket and trousers, with glittering gold buttons on his lapel and the dusting of a simple golden circlet haloing his head - this was one version of the Prince of Lutea.

But it also wasn’t him at all, the Dongho who liked to wander the woods on horseback with his friends over the stuffy meetings and glamorous gatherings, who would practice his swordsmanship until his callused hands ached and his entire body was drenched in sweat, whose main pleasures were sneaking freshly cooked buns from the kitchen and sing songs he read in poetry books to the stars in the sky before the guards were forced to return him to his quarters.

And he remembered the tense knot in his stomach as he’d stood behind his parents at the gates awaiting the arrival of his betrothed and wondering just which Dongho would he want.

The moment Hwang Minhyun stepped free of the horse-drawn carriage, emerging under the sunlight in the royal blue and red of his home nation, Dongho’s breath had caught in his chest. That same air filling his lungs had suddenly taken on a sweet, sharp edge, burning pleasantly as he finally saw the one who he was destined to wed. 

He had of course seen Minhyun before; in glimpses at royal gatherings held across the nations, in the occasional sketch or portrait included in the galleries or artists’ portfolios when they came to peddle their talents to the King and Queen seeking patronage. He had met him too when they were both ten at Princess Soyeon’s wedding, a brief exchange of shy smiles and polite bows. Dongho could not deny that those glimpses had imprinted themselves in his mind far before he had known of the plan of their parents to have them wed. 

That spring day, however, was the first time he saw Minhyun as his future husband. 

Dongho wishes he could return to those days. They had been so much simpler, where his only worry was being too forward (‘you’re handsome’ he’d blurted out when Minhyun had teasingly asked him what he was staring at while strolling the gardens; ‘you’re cute’ were the words that made him blush right to the tips of his ears when he threw the same question at Minhyun over the breakfast table the following day, self-conscious to see the Adanfyrosian Prince watching him eat his custard tart so intently) or being too shy with his betrothed. Their letter exchanges over the years had comprised the bulk of their relationship; through quill and ink Dongho grew closer to knowing - if not understanding - the earnest, determined, and charmingly foolish Minhyun that was meant to be his future partner.

Now when Dongho sees that very same young man emerging from a golden carriage, even more handsome, even more beautiful than when last they met, his feelings are anything but simple.

Maybe if Minhyun was still his future husband it would have been different.

The man who stands now with a charming smirk, dressed in pure white and gold, is not Dongho’s betrothed. He is an enemy of their nation. 

“Guards!” The King’s shout is clear above the heavy trampling of dozens of armed soldiers circling the carriage and unwanted prince. “Escort this traitor out of our lands immediately.”

“-father..” He barely recognises his own voice, the plea is so soft. 

“I am no traitor, your Majesty.” Minhyun announces, striding slowly towards the steps. His hands are splayed at his hips to show he is unarmed yet his presence feels dangerous to Dongho. Perhaps it is because he can’t breathe; perhaps it is because of how Minhyun’s dark eyes find him instantly even when he is addressing the King, “I have come here today to assert my rightful claim.” 

“Rightful claim to what? You have no claim here, boy. Now leave before I have you in shackles.” 

Minhyun does not waver, nor does he slow down; Dongho notices because he can look nowhere else but at the white Prince who seems dressed for a wedding _it could have been ours,_ Dongho thinks _, but that all changed._

Almond-shaped eyes stare at Dongho, their pull magnetising his feet to walk from out behind the King’s shadow to face him directly.

“I will not leave until I have the hand of my Prince of Hearts joined to my own.” Minhyun smiles, raising a hand out to Dongho to take. “I am here to wed my beloved.”

_It might still be ours._

Dongho wishes the thought didn’t arise as easily as it did.

But, that was the power of Hwang Minhyun over his heart, he realises. One not entirely mended, nor wholly broken.

He does not take the offered hand in spite of the temptation to do so; instead Dongho takes in a breath to fortify himself before stepping between his father and Minhyun. All around, murmurs of shock breeze through the surrounding guards, rippling like the fury barely contained beneath the surface of the King’s expression. 

“Father, if he has come here in peace,” Dongho says evenly, “then should we not entertain this opportunity to show magnanimity to our enemies?” 

Behind him he cannot see Prince Minhyun’s face, but from the way the King frowns he can assume that the other must either be smirking or grinning. So Dongho turns, raising his brows at the – _grinning, why must you be so antagonistic,_ he wonders, recalling the many times in their letter exchanges where Minhyun would tease him on something, anything, only to receive a haughty, flustered reply from Dongho’s pen – tall prince, whose eyes fall to him and smile does not falter,

“And if you have come here in peace, then you should have a letter of Amnesty prepared signed by our allies confirming so?” Dongho offers his hand now, expectantly for the wax-sealed scroll he is certain Minhyun does not have, for if the other had such foresight then this arrival would have not been a surprise. There was no way that their allies would have said nothing prior to today had they known.

The dazzling smile falters, a series of blinks before Minhyun looks away to the guards still encircling them, weapons drawn.

“You see…”

“You do not have one, do you?” Dongho rolls his eyes and begins to ascend the staircase. As he does, the guards shift in closer, the points of their swords veering like compass needles towards Minhyun’s movements.

Instead of a piece of paper filling his hand, Dongho stills midstep as the warmth of fingers trickles along his palm, filtering through to intertwine with his own. They’re small, delicate, nothing like the confident man they belong to. They are fingers that for years of fumbling teenage courtship wrote jokes in love letters to make Dongho smile during court proceedings, spoke of mishaps in daily life and spoke of a longing and excitement to finally be reunited when they were to marry.

Those letters had stopped coming after Adanfyros had slighted Lutea and supported their enemy.

For years, nothing.

Not a single word.

Yet on the eve of finding a new husband, it was not a letter that had arrived on the palace doorstep, but the Prince of Adanfyros himself.

“Guards!” The King shouts, and the guards move in closer.

Dongho feels the fingers around his own squeeze gently.

“Dongho…” Minhyun’s voice is different to how he remembers, deeper, sweeter. “They would not allow me to come so I came alone. Do not tell me now that I did so in vain, give me a chance.”

Dongho lowers his head, squeezing back weakly before turning to the King.

“He is a Prince, father. Should we not allow him to attempt a claim? Perhaps it will return peace to our nations.”

“I will not allow it. He has come unannounced and without permission.”

“You said that the choice would rest with me.” After all that had happened with the arranged marriage, it had been offered as a concession by his parents to soften his broken heart. Dongho turns his soft gaze, pleading with his father without saying the words that would embarrass their nation in front of anyone.

“And this is your choice?” The disappointment from the King is heavy, weighs on Dongho’s shoulders. He can also feel Minhyun’s gaze on him, just as weighted with a different emotion.

He sighs, “It is.”

Following a reluctant grunt from their King, the guards are commanded to stand down. The hand in Dongho’s holds tighter, gives him the strength he needs to resume walking back up the grand staircase, Minhyun following close behind. When he glances to the side, he can see the familiar sight of a smile decorating the white prince’s lips.

“What are you smiling about?” Dongho mutters, fighting one of his own as he pulls his hand away. “I have not said yes. You have far to go in earning trust to our people, Prince Minhyun.”

“As long as I can stay at your side, my prince, that is all the yes I desire.”

It is far from enough for Dongho after all these years.

But when they reach the castle doors and Minhyun stands aside, deferring to allow Dongho to enter before him then follows on to link arms and brightly speak of his journey here, of sneaking out of the castle and joking happily about the inevitable shock that the rest of the palace will undoubtedly have, well

it’s a start.

* * *

_{The Balcony.}_

_“You’re incredibly beautiful. Like a,”_ Aaron pauses as he searches the room, only turning back when his eyes light up, _“like a marble statue. You look like you’re carved from the finest hands actually. Out of this world, even.”_

Aaron’s native tongue, the one that had occasionally passed by Lutea’s waters a few times a year, comes out in strings as he faces the nation’s crown. Weightless words form from a clear head, because Aaron knows there’s no hesitance when he looks at Kang.

“What are you saying?” Dongho asks. One hand clasps the pristine white saucer while the other threads through a handle. The cup sits near his lips as Aaron speaks in his language with a hint of slow awe.

Aaron smiles before lifting up his own teacup. The way the foreign royal sips the dark liquid is different. Still delicate. He drinks it in a smooth, slow, continuous flow that creates a stream from porcelain edge to the ends of his throat until the cup is emptied. 

It’s unlike the way Dongho takes tiny, spaced sips of the tea. The rounded edge of his cup is smudged in red from the multiple times he presses it to his lips, and when he places both the cup and saucer down, dark tea lightly sloshes inside.

“Nothing to concern you,” Aaron replies. _“It’s merely that you’re so breathtaking there would be nothing more satisfying than bringing you back to my home country on my arm. The people would worship you there the way I would if you just followed me across oceans with those eyes.”_

“Don’t lie,” Dongho says as to which Aaron laughs.

_“Then don’t look at me like that,”_ the foreigner says with a light voice as his eyes crinkle up, _“or I really will return back an improper man.”_

Aaron picks up the forgotten book lying on the side table. There’s not a single bend in any of its pages as he flips through to the middle of it. The empty words, those that teach him the irregular intricacies of the language that spills so prettily out of the crown prince’s pink lips, become lost as his eyes trail up to watch the Lutean himself. 

Dongho pouts to himself, eyes pitiful as Aaron keeps his head down turned. The native prince, so naive and beautiful, picks at the stiff sleeve of his black suit and sighs.

_Perhaps another day,_ Aaron supposes. One where his tongue won’t tie up trying to attract a prince who seems too delicate for his own good.

Aaron stops at a page, fingers pressing hard against the edges of the pages to keep the words open and clear. The day Lutea was created. A small nation that rested on its physical strength and dependability.

Beyond the aged pages that still bear a strong weight of washed ink, the birds chirp at Dongho to throw tiny seeds over the white edge of the balcony. Their song wiggles past Aaron’s fingers, taints the yellowed pages and decorates Lutea’s palace that was merely a tiny outline, a skeleton of a framework, of a kingdom in its making. 

From the balcony’s corner, lined with bright vines and muted blue flowers, Dongho whistles and scatters fine bread crumbs along the ground. 

And Aaron watches. 

_A fine husband,_ Aaron concludes in finality, as Dongho trails fingers along the white, stone rail and happily sighs at the tiny pecks made under the heated sun.

* * *

**[The Throne Room.]**

There are many differences between their lands, Minhyun has noticed over the years. Subtle, but important. 

In Adanfyros, the throne room is a celebration of all that makes their Kingdom glorious. Stained glass windows of ancient kings and queens decorate their walls, rows of stands dusted with lavender bouquets that usher any who enter before the four magnificent thrones and kneel in front of their rulers. These chairs are carved from the same glittering white marble their forebears mined from the mountains, draped with the red and navy blue that represent the fiery volcano to the east and the blue ocean that fringes their lands on the north.

At home, Minhyun’s presence in the throne room would be a cause for joy and praise. His every word is lauded and echoed by his family and followers.

For everything that is, except for the matter of his marriage. 

“ _Let me go to him, let me speak to them all. I am sure it is a misunderstanding that can be forgiven.”_ His pleas to his parents had fallen on unwilling ears.

“ _What has Lutea done for us of late, that we should stoop so low as to beg for their allyship when they have a tantrum over an overlooked wedding and a few tributes?”_ The King of Adanfyros had been adamant. 

_“Esteria is a fine replacement, we do not need such treatises with Lutea. Their power and influence is waning. Dear, fret not,”_ The Queen had spoken more kindly, petting Minhyun’s trembling hand as she soothed, “ _we will find you another bride, one who is worthy of our nation and of you.”_

 _“But I do not_ want _another!”_

For years this thought remained, unspoken after vocalising brought no change. He had hoped it lingered in his betrothed too. But hearing word that the Lutean Prince was to be wed, Minhyun knew he could not wait for his parents to change their minds. 

He had to act. 

And so he stole a carriage and travelled across the valleys to secure the only one whose hand he wanted.

Now, as he stands in the grand throne room of Lutea, Minhyun is more aware than ever of what separates their kingdoms.

It is not the columns of grey stone that bolster the sun-filled ceiling, beams of light streaming through window panes speckled with silver fragments, nor the native tangerine blossoms which perfume the room in discreet arrangements between the stationed guards. The thrones are the same in amount - four, but are of slate and swirling amber. These differences are minor, purely cosmetic. 

The only difference that Minhyun cares about is that here, there is no special place set aside for him. Dongho strides through the hall to take his seat and his presence summons every gaze upon him, long cape fluttering from his shoulders like sails in the breeze, a crown of silver and topaz kissing his curls as gently as Minhyun longs to do so with his own lips. The Lutean Prince is beautiful, from the way his eyes crinkle with sweet laughter, to the smile he graces the hall with, to the delicate flush on his cheekbones when after another suitor declares their official intentions to seek his hand, Minhyun steps forward.

It fills him with confidence, seeing the effect he still has on Prince Dongho.

And it fills him with hope that he will carve out his place in this room at Dongho's side - not given through birthright as in Adanfyros, nor through an old marital contract, but rather is offered through love.

* * *

_{The Garden.}_

“What are your hobbies?”

The stray thread tucked messily under Dongho’s finger is ripped off and discarded.

It’s morning on another day, another full spin of a delicate planet that pushes a breakfast onto both the foreign and crown princes. There they sit, legs planted evenly on watered grass and basking in the light warmth of the rising sun from where it’s best meant to be enjoyed.

Dongho had enjoyed the silence between them as food rotated around white porcelain and clacking cutlery. The sun shone a light blanket over his back, warming him up until the honey sliding down his throat over a dry cracker felt like it was being baked even when he ate. It was peaceful, pleasant, a moment that didn’t have to wake Dongho’s mind from its tiny fits of slumber.

“My,” Dongho hesitates, the still filled cup of freshly pressed juice with its rose pattern a more fitting thing to play with, and he does, lining its edge with a single finger and wondering just _why_ his suitor wonders that, “hobbies?”

He’s awoken now. Words aren’t just hums of appreciation from the cheese that’s been expertly aged under strong hands anymore. Aaron tests him, winds Dongho up like a clock and watches as he’s strung along with just a simple question.

Aaron slowly nods, face deepening in its creases as Dongho lingers on the cup.

“What you like to do, yes,” he says. “Horseback?”

Dongho laughs, a small huff before leaning back on his chair, a grape slipping off of his fingers and back onto the plate.

“I fell off of my horse once.” 

The prince raises an arm, pulling up the black sleeve and revealing a large tattoo, a tiger in darkened ink that lies ferocious on his forearm. It’s detailing that Aaron’s seen before, only on the skin of those who spent lives mastering the art that comes with much responsibility and creativity. 

“That’s beautiful,” Aaron remarks, eyes raking through black fur and shadow, and his fingers quirk. He wants to touch.

“I had this huge bruise on my arm, and my coming of age ceremony was the day after. And my mother?” Dongho sighs, lips pouting before giggling. “I had to find someone to draw on me so I could explain that rather than how I almost broke an elbow falling off of her beloved steed.”

“So you’re clever,” Aaron says with a quirk of his mouth.

“I know how to survive,” Dongho replies.

The Malioner stares at the Lutean. He soaks it in, the tiny puffs of laughter that bubble like summer springs past the prince’s lips at the sight of his ferocious tiger, the never ending press of grapes and strawberries and pastries against still blushing lips that never lose vibrance, and the sight of dark hair tossed around with the beginnings of a morning breeze.

Malion, Aaron finds, is now missed even more. It’s with itching hands that he doesn’t grab at Dongho’s hand, pulling him away until the shores of his own home are seen and he can greet his people with what they deserve.

It’s utterly helpless, once again, as Aaron voices uncomplicated thoughts.

_“With every word and every story I grow more infatuated with you. Is that not insanity?”_

“Again?” Dongho, exasperated, sighs as Aaron slips into the tongue that comes as the oceans that line their shores.

The table is almost cleared by now, crumbs piling up until it’s just green stems and crumbled cookies that dot pristine plates. The sun itself is now high in the sky, a bright spotlight that shines against Aaron’s crinkled eyes and illuminates his gaze.

  
 _“Again, my prince,”_ Aaron wonderfully mutters, eyes tracking ink that's simply revealed another page etched with wide shoulders and a strong posture that captures him in again.

* * *

**[The Kitchen.]**

It is always hot in here, sweltering as though the wrath of summer has been imprisoned entirely in a dozen firing ovens and a dozen more stovetops.

Lutean summers are long, but to Dongho they never feel as though they are quite long enough; when he misses that heat, or simply finds his stomach rumbling, this is where he comes. Among the endless chorus of conversation and orders, cooks and servants scramble between their stations like bushy-tailed squirrels gathering nuts for winter. It is a barely-organised chaos, a stark relief to the rigid meetings and throneroom discussions Dongho has been a part of since he was a child learning to be the future king.

“So this is where my sweet Prince is hiding.” The teasing lilt in Prince Minhyun’s voice is a semi-permanent structure in all their interactions, Dongho has discovered, so much so that when he read the other’s letters, it was always with that particular tone echoing in his head. “It's a good disguise - a sweet hidden among sweets.”

Dongho does not answer. Steady hands continue to squeeze the soft piping bag, crowning a marzipan almond cake with careful white fleur-de-lis. Dongho’s tongue peeks out between his lips as he concentrates.

“What are you making? I did not know you baked.” Now Minhyun is circling, craning his neck easily over Dongho’s shoulder before he rests his chin there. Purposefully blows hot air into Dongho’s ears (they already grow hot when he is angry or embarrassed or shy, and he doesn’t know which is making them so red now that Minhyun is murmuring into them) “May I have a taste?”

Dongho shrugs his shoulders to move him away, hissing when doing so leaves a blob instead of a delicate flower petal. Annoyed, he scoops the errorneous frosting up with a teaspoon then offers it to Minhyun's lips distractedly. 

"Here, be quiet and eat this since you insist on pestering me." 

A kiss, warmer then the ovens blazing merrily, sweeter than the untouched slip of sugar icing Prince Minhyun bypasses to grant it, is placed on the tip of Dongho's nose.

Dongho blinks once.

Twice.

Three times.

Opens his mouth to complain for the sudden affection and remind himself that this should not make his heart flutter. Only it does. They’re having a moment, tense, surreal, wonderful, looking into each other’s eyes and Dongho for the first time entertains the thought there _could_ be something underneath all this playful teasing Minhyun has been throwing at him since his return, that Minhyun might truly have matured during their time apart..

then Minhyun suddenly smears the huge glob of sticky frosting over Dongho’s cheek, cackling.

_Nope_ , Dongho thinks as he chases the other through the crowded kitchen, _he's_ _still an idiot-_

And when he rests against the wall in the quiet hallway which will soon be filled with the guards meant to monitor them both, Minhyun panting as well, they both share crooked smiles that leaves Dongho feeling light as a cloud, but the hand in his keeps him grounded to the earth.

 _-so am I_.

* * *

_{The Ballroom.}_

The sun is setting quickly below the horizon, only its head peeking out to catch Dongho’s floating body drift across the marble floor in a daze. Large, open windows carry light curtains that reach onwards towards the dancing prince, the wind a whistle that plays to the tune of a silent song.

“You dance as well.” 

Dongho startles, his steps mismatching until dress shoes squeak harsh against the ground and stop before Malion’s prince. 

Aaron, who only ever dressed in prim and proper attire since the foot he stepped on the land, steps into the ballroom with a loose white shirt that rolls up to show golden forearms. Dark eyes follow Dongho as the foreign prince runs a hand last his slicked blond hair, throwing his head back in a sigh before sharply grinning at the native.

“I’m practicing,” Dongho says as he watches Aaron unfurl into something simpler, loosened sleeves drooping down lax elbows and shoulders settling in a slow roll down to the floor.

“Oh?”

_Click, click, click, click._

“Shall we?”

From outstretched fingertips curling towards Dongho’s chest, to the straightened arm that extends down to Aaron’s pointed toe swiveling from the heel, he beckons Dongho to travel with the notes that come from the rustling of the air.

“With no music?” Dongho smiles in amusement.

And yet, Aaron’s hand is graciously filled. As soon as their palms become intimate, nestling up to each other as birds in a nest, Dongho’s pulled out across the ballroom.

“The music is all around us, darling,” Aaron says as he sweeps the Lutean to the middle of the marbled floor, the golden tangerine planters right under their feet and twinkling strands of glass dangling over their heads up in the dark ceiling. “All you have to do,” Dongho’s pulled up to Aaron’s chest, and their noses touch with the barest of pressed, “is dance with me.”

An arm slips around Dongho’s waist, pressing down at the slope of his back, and another caresses his hand before lifting it up.

He chases the soft breaths against his face, yet also almost sinks into the weight of Aaron’s sure hand, but then has the urge to snatch away his hand from how warm being encapsulated in strong fingers is. Dongho’s dizzy, his world isn’t still yet it _is_ because only the trees whistle at them, and nothing has even begun nor ended.

“Lead the way, your highness,” Dongho says as he pulls Aaron forward by the neck, a soft patch of skin that heats up beautifully under his touch. 

Aaron grins, a joyous thing that sends moisture along Dongho’s forehead despite the cool shadows that cast as bystanders from the dropping sun, and dances.

Lutea meets Malion in a celebration as Aaron carves a curved path across shining, pure white marble. With every turn, not a stumble from feet that doesn’t label itself experience, rather _connection,_ and every hush of wind that flicks back blond hair that brings another star into Dongho’s eyes, it’s almost magic.

Not the magic that Dongho reads about in secret through fantasies, no, it’s the magic that makes him believe in himself just a little bit more. He believes in the beating of his own heart against a small yet sturdy chest, the limber movements of his own legs that only serve to follow the older prince, the way warmth bleeds out from the other until they can almost melt into each other without even noticing or caring.

“Hey!” 

Dongho shouts when Aaron smoothly halts at the corner of the room, in the dark where a simply vase shields the sun from reaching her gaze over, and brings his hand up over their heads. He spins, a clumsy twirl that knocks his feet off balance, and punches the laugh right out of his chest and into Aaron’s embrace as he plants forward.

“Good practice?”

It tumbles throughout Aaron’s chest, a low bass that surpasses white cotton and into Dongho’s shuddering soul as they hug.

Dongho squeezes around the prince that holds him, nuzzles his head down on a shoulder, and sighs. 

Up ahead, the vase isn’t needed anymore as the sun finally settles into designated slumber. Golden skin melts and hardens as the moon’s white light turns hands and necks pale.

Still, Dongho finds solace in familiar, strange arms. 

And Aaron, he finds a flicker of sunlight embedded deep in Dongho’s tired eyes that blink so endearingly at him.

* * *

** [The Bedroom.] **

“What are you doing, you cannot be here!”

It comes out as a low hiss, urgent, but Dongho finds himself stepping aside to instinctively pull the other man beyond the dangerous openness of the hallway and into the safety of his room before the guards or a passing servant or worse, _his parents_ see. This late in the evening, the castle is asleep, with only the sleepless and the studious keeping the stone walls warm with soft candlelight. Dongho is both, has been both for a long time, with the sleeplessness growing worse with the presence of two foreign princes who have his mind constantly running with thoughts and feelings that cannot be spoken aloud to any but the men in question.

The door closes at his push and it is only then that Dongho realises his mistake.

Safety would be having Prince Minhyun in any room but this one.

“What do you mean, Dongho? I believe you insisted I come inside-“ The tall prince raises his wrist to show off his tunic cuff, circled with embroidered gold threads and the gentle curl of Dongho’s fingers.

Dongho releases his hold immediately, snatching his hand to his chest as he takes several steps to put a respectable amount of space between them.

“Because if anyone were to see you visiting my chambers, my parents would have your head delivered back to Adanfyros!”

“Not if it were our chambers.” Minhyun says, as though it were obvious. He is wearing night clothes just like Dongho is; a knee length silk tunic dyed tangerine but appears gold in the soft candlelight, a cord tied loosely around his waist, the ends of which swing like a lazy cat’s tail at his hip while he wanders around Dongho’s room. Tucked under his arm Minhyun has a small red book with jutting pages, which Dongho assumes must have been the alibi for his late night walk ‘to the library’ were he stopped for questioning. His bare feet make almost no sound, muffled slaps against cold slate tiles and then soft shuffles through the plush rugs Dongho has draped near his bed and under his writing desk.

“What has you think that they ever will be?” Dongho sniffs, his shoulders tensing when Minhyun pauses at his desk, peering at the messy papers and open books scattered across the mahogany surface. Candles cast shadows across Minhyun’s face, highlighting the new, sharper features that Dongho has been admiring for the last two weeks (subtly, he hopes, but somehow with Minhyun catching his gaze more than once, he thinks he’s definitely been caught).

Minhyun reaches out, stroking over the page atop the pile in front of the chair. His expression softens seeing his own handwriting inked in elegant swoops and perfect lines, “You kept them..”

He knows that he shouldn’t have. More than once his parents have accused him of being too soft, too sentimental-

“ ' _Through sunset, and through the twilight_ _nights, through the sun that shines for all summer, are thoughts of your presence at my side. All that I treasure are our memories, each gathered as clouds at the breaking of day, stained with the rosy tint of your smile.'_ ” Minhyun murmurs and with his gentle voice it almost sounds like a poetry recital, instead of merely quoting the gushing sign-off of one of Dongho’s letters written to him six years ago.

He’s glad for the low lighting that he’d been cursing for the eyestrain just half an hour ago because now it hides the reddening flush on his cheeks. Rubbing his bottom lip, Dongho groans and tells him not to say those words.

“But they are mine, you gave them to me.” Minhyun insists, nose tilting upward as he smiles. He settles to lean against the desk, placing the red book among the others as he asks, “Are you taking them back?”

“I wrote them first, so I can if I wish to.” Dongho mutters. “Why have you come here at this hour? What cannot wait until morning?”

“Would you believe me if I said I was lonely?”

“Not for a second.” Dongho laughs. “Are my father’s guards not following you closely enough? I can ask him to add more if you wish?”

“I am quite sick of their faces.” Minhyun’s bottom lip juts out, fingers tapping over the letter paper. “I have had to look at them every day.”

“Ah, then you must be tired of mine as we—“

“No!” Minhyun blurts out, so sharply that Dongho’s teasing smile fades into a surprised ‘o’. “If anything…I wish to see it more.”

Dongho runs his hands through his hair. He knows that Minhyun is not the only one who has grown up since they last saw each other and with the way that he has been receiving attention at court over recent years, let alone how warm Prince Aron’s gaze is upon him, he is aware of his own attractiveness. It does not prepare him for how Minhyun looks at him every day since his arrival, as if of all the flowers that bloomed upon the fertile soils of the Lutean fields, Dongho was fairer than them all. He looks at him now, dark eyes deep with longing that strips away any joke Dongho had been tempted to speak to lift the mood.

He isn’t even sure what mood has descended, tension like overworked muscles draining his thoughts as Minhyun clears his throat. 

“Do you no longer wish to see mine?”

Dongho lets out a sigh; the quietness doesn’t suit the taller man but he knows that Minhyun has been observing his interactions with Prince Aron, has more than once felt the other’s hand slipping possessively around his waist or settle on his thigh or leg when the two converse, like his claim to Dongho was somehow more than that of his competitor when truly, it was merely equal since the arranged marriage was cancelled.

Yet he cannot forget the young man whose letters he re-reads over candelight, pages still perfumed by faint fragments of winter neroli and Adanfyrosian lavender that promise a sweet dream with each breath he takes. Dongho has been accused of being soft, being sentimental and perhaps it is a weakness.

Seeing how Minhyun lights up when he speaks, confirms it is a weakness Dongho does not regret,

“What are you talking about, Minhyun? I believe I was the one who insisted you come inside.”

-

Minhyun’s arms hold him close under the covers, refusing to dislodge when Dongho leans over to blow out the last candle and drench the room in darkness. The smell of lavender soothes him together with the cold lips frosting paths along his nape, his ear, his jaw, and eventually, as Dongho turns to curl up against the other, one is pressed to forehead. Soft murmurs, a song he know only because he has heard Minhyun sing it to him before, all lull him to a deep, dreamless sleep, better than he has had in weeks.

When the morning sun rises, the light slipping through the parted curtains fills the room with warmth. It heats the cooling emptiness of the sheets next to him as Dongho’s palm runs over the luxuriant threads and opens his eyes.

He thinks he remembers a ghost of a kiss, a murmur of “ _good morning”_ against his lips, but it could have been a dream.

It is only when he has changed out of his sleeping clothes and is tidying his desk that he sees the small red book Minhyun had left behind, forgotten. Curious, Dongho flips the cover open to see the loose sheafs of paper stuffed within. Careful fingertips push them free, unafraid of smearing ink that has been dried for years, unfamiliar words written in a familiar hand. His expression softens, brows rising with the trembling corners of his lips.

The first letter is dated six years ago. It is addressed, like all others before and after, ‘ _To my sweet Dongho’_

The note that sits above it is dated yesterday.

_‘These were returned before they reached your border, never read, but they are my words that belong to you and you alone._

_I hope you will keep them as I have you in my heart,  
  
Your loving Minhyun.’_

-

**[The Dining Room.]**

The first thing he greets Minhyun with at breakfast in response to the other’s satisfied smile at seeing his shyness is a huff, unable to meet his gaze. It's only when he takes his seat between the visiting princes that he mutters,

“Since when have you been so sentimental, Prince Minhyun?”

Minhyun slides a buttered slab of toast over to Dongho, drenching it in grapefruit honey for him as he grins.

“I had many years spent studying letters by the best.”

“I am glad you agree I am the best.” Dongho’s ears burn red as he crunches into the sweet bread and allows the other to fuss at the crumbs that scatter beyond the saucer underneath.

“Soon, you will agree I am too.” Minhyun coos.

Dongho thinks back to the pages of letters penned by the other, how his heart pounded to read through each cursive symbol, and he is eager now to finish the day’s duties so that he could return to them and bask in their flowery scent and sentiment, both of which he has missed for years. Under the cover of the table, his knee finds Minhyun’s and nudges him playfully. He won't look at him, but he does concede to mutter with a smile,

“Perhaps.”

* * *

_{The Library.}_

The palace of Lutea, as a whole, is often quiet. For such a grand home, with its towering rooms and stretching corridors, only silence echoes within its walls. Not so much as a whisper from the handful of servants reaches Dongho’s room when he awakens or slumbers.

However, if he thought the sporadic chirping of bluebirds at his windowsill and the rustle of sheer curtains were quiet, then the absolute hush that falls over the palace library is deafening. Once the wooden doors are pushed open and dragged over red carpet, only closing with the softest of clicks despite its ceiling height, a too heavy blanket of stillness falls over the room.

Two floors of book lined shelves line the sides of the library. Fiction lies to Dongho’s right, a tiny section that hides behind thick texts of the world’s history and is two rows down from ethics and moral codes. It’s his favorite section and has always been since he was able to physically pick up a book. 

When he looks up, the half circle window shines with the sun’s brightest light. 

And in the middle of the library, a long dark mahogany table stretches forward until it reaches the back. Numerous chairs are spaced so perfectly, unused and tucked into the desk.

Except one.

Under the straight panel of light that confines itself into a half circle, where tiny specks of dust from ancient books float down, Prince Aaron sits in that light and reads from a book with yellowed pages. Although the chair is pushed in straight, and his feet remain pressed to the carpeted floor, his back hunches over as his eyes flit from page to page.

With a curt cough, Aaron rolls eyes over to Dongho. 

“I like these kinds of stories,” Dongho says as he approaches the mahogany, holds up a worn out, leather-wrapped book that was neatly placed down in a pile. _Looking Afar,_ it reads in black, faded text.

“I haven't heard of it,” Aaron replies. He looks curiously at the small book.

Dongho opens up the front cover, takes in the crinkle of pages that have lasted for decades, and smiles.

“It’s not what most of us would read.” 

Inside, he knows it by heart. If Aaron asked, maybe even hinted at the possibility, Dongho would tell him what page the traveler reached the enchanted city, when he would meet the beautiful woman that beckoned him to explore the city under her guidance, and the same words uttered to each other as the city crumbled to dust and they walked hand in hand past cursed ruins with immortality in their veins.

_Fantasy,_ his teachers would say, _is for those who have nothing._

“People look up at the stars and think that there is a mythical place that panders only to them,” his father would then add as he ran rough fingers down dried scrolls. “And they forget where they reside.” The crest that was stamped and engrained within palace walls shone big and vibrant to the Dongho who barely reached up to waists. “It is our kingdom that provides for them, and it is us who they should thank.”

“But you still read it,” Aaron notes as Dongho flips through the pages with ease, familiar actions that come after so many sunsets spent gazing at worn text.

Dongho closes the book softly, places it down on the table and lingers at the torn spine. 

“The King is not always correct,” Dongho says as he trails around the long table. A stack of nameless books lie at the edge. “Wouldn’t people prefer a worldly ruler? One who has traversed the same trails of outlandish dreams as they have?”

“Dragons and enchantments hidden over treasures will help you so?” 

“Knowing ruler and ruled are the same will.”

Aaron nods. The many books of fantasy lying in a pile just under Dongho’s palm seem more attractive, inviting prospects that make him want to see what the free minded prince also sees.

“Then,” he says as he leaves the seat with barely a suffering creak from the wooden chair and trailing over to Dongho at the end of the table, “would you happen to have a recommendation?” 

Dongho looks at him with an indecipherable look, strained but also endearing and loose at the mouth. As if Aaron simply unlocked a sizable portion of the universe and Dongho has finally realized the immense potential he holds.

With a confused frown as the crown prince continues to stare at him, Aaron picks up the book at the very top of the pile and opens its arms. Just like the others, the text is worn and the paper feels like it’s been through two rounds of intense storms and droughts. Still, the neatly printed words flow smoothly under his roaming eyes.

A princess who has been locked away in her castle for millenia catches a glimpse of a star that streaks the sky in white and gold. As she wishes upon its tail for her release, it gleams in a bright flash and drops the prince who slinks through dark shadows to release her from the rusted iron gates. 

How could there be more, Aaron wonders as he thumbs through pages. When it all seems so simple, the seemingly endless pages of enchanted words carry on, and he’s left with the idea that maybe it all isn’t as clean cut as he expected it to be.

In the low shuffling and quiet breathing of the library, Aaron closes the book and picks up another. His fingers itch, in a secret way that confuses him, to grab at the next worn leather body, and he does, carefully, before he hears Dongho sigh happily and move quickly.

_“Don’t you think I look like a statue?”_ Dongho asks as they’re both picking up books with twin worn leather spines. His accent is broken and clumsy, but there’s an impact, he’s sure of it. 

For a moment, Aaron disregards the words spoken like blocks in his own language. He hadn’t expected to hear what was first nature to him in a place that only served as competition for him. Especially not from lips that seem so confident it’s a wonder that Dongho has been unwed for so long.

The moment passes, and the book in Aaron’s hands falls to the carpeted ground with a small _thump_ before he rounds to face Dongho who smiles lightly behind the cover of _The Ways to a Blooming Camellia._

“What?”

Dongho softly closes the book, placing it down on the long table he rests on, and leans back.

_“I look like a marble statue carved from hands not from this world. Do you not remember?”_ He tilts his head, a teasing thing that brings Aaron forward until their polished shoes could almost touch. _“You are so infatuated with me you’d steal me away from this kingdom?”_

Aaron looks scared, his eyes as big as glass rims and searching Dongho’s face for a sneer. The crown prince doesn’t, though. Dongho drops his chin and looks up at Aaron under a light sheen of dark lashes.

“You’re very skilled with your words,” he carefully says. The older man comes closer, feet placing themselves between Dongho’s polished shoes.

“So you understand me,” Aaron shakily replies. “And you never bothered to answer?”

When Dongho leans back, just an inch, he hits the panel of sunlight reaching down onto the mahogany desk. Light shoots at the corner of his vision, and Aaron becomes lost to his eyes as only bright white is all he sees. The warmth on the side of his face caresses hi m so smoothly, however, and he drops his head back. 

“I enjoyed them either way. With words,” he hooks his ankles together behind a pair of legs and pulls, “or without.”

He can see clearly, now, how Aaron’s lips part in a pleasant surprise, when he pulls the older prince into the warmth of the light. He can see the foreign prince’s hand reach out to him, can also eventually see the hand curl up into a ball and remain at his side.

Dongho looks deeper, then, into the wide, brown eyes that hold so much shock. Pleasant surprise and awe. 

“Your language is very beautiful, Aron,” he says as his palms slide against the desk, smudging the waxed surface with fingerprints and wide palms. “I’ve been studying it for seven years now.”

And it wasn’t for the pride of his parents or under the nagging from his teachers. Actually, he had even defied them when he begged his tutors to teach him in the mysterious language sailors shouted in when they docked at Lutea’s piers. After all, why would a future king settled into his homeland yearn to speak the language of far away lands and never ending oceans?

But he did, and each lesson taught him more of the complex characters, of the long string of words that wrote out so beautifully, and of the far countries that used this beautiful language. There was a world beyond the gray bricks of his home that he finally uncovered, somewhere where feet nor his tiny island of a kingdom couldn’t take him. It was his own enchanted city, and it was from desperation and curiosity that Dongho yearned to be the naive traveller.

Kwak Aaron, the foreign prince that travelled from the unseeable world beyond, showed up as a compass in a lost man’s hands. Well spoken, polite, charming, and a face that boasted of the ocean coast’s upbringing; Aaron was, _is,_ a unique gem that rolled to Dongho’s feet.

Just as he would gently hold a jewel in his hand, Dongho touches Aaron’s smooth cheek with a light brush of fingers.

“You are beautiful, too—“

He doesn’t make a sound when Aaron clumsily lurches forward and kisses him. It isn’t needed. The hard press of small, delicate lips against his muffled any and all sound, and it is just them. 

Dongho closes his eyes, body falling backwards as Aaron heads forwards, but his back doesn’t meet the unforgiving wood. A hand, just as small as the lips that take from him but strong enough in their own sense, holds his back. When Dongho picks his chin up, he is pulled even tighter into Aaron’s chest.

Sunlight streams into his closed eyes, and it becomes a hazy mass of red, white, black behind tightly shut eyelids. His face warms up as well, but whether from the bursting light or the warmth making its way up to his ears, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t care.

The soft, dry kiss parts without a hint of its actions. Only the arm around Dongho’s waist and the hint of fingers lingering on Aaron’s cheek remains. Even then, it’s as if the kiss never happened. 

Dongho notes, belatedly, that his first kiss might have just been lost to the tiny world. 

“I meant it,” Aaron says low, not quite a whisper in his courage but the library is able to carry on with its hushed life, “that there would be nothing else for me but to have your hand.”

“You would wed me just like that?”

“I would be a fool to lose this chance,” Aaron answers, each syllable etched onto Dongho’s lips when he speaks. 

They stand eye to eye, nose brushing against the other’s, lips barely meeting with the slightest words. Reaching words could force his heart to jolt out and claim Aaron’s as well, if only the weight of his gaze didn’t ground Dongho. 

_I want you. I need you. This is mine._

_This is Malion’s treasure._

Dongho doesn’t want any other sign. He knows, even when they are barriers apart, that Aaron wants him, all of him.

Dongho’s first kiss might have escaped the overwhelmingly fast reality of their embrace, but the second time that Aaron slowly leans in, a beautiful nose bridge coming closer to meet Dongho and eyes that contain more life than the Seven Seas, Dongho could easily capture it all.

They haven’t moved from their positions. Not a single foot was raised nor dropped. If David is the pinnacle of youthful beauty and a lingering strength, their limbs entangled together in a perfect still is the start of the world itself. 

They kiss, and the center of everything becomes just him and the foreign prince wrapped around his chest. 

It’s simply… 

glorious.

As the sun begins its slow descent, the library darkens to a mute orange that lines against the old, brown shelves. The panel of light that shone on them, as would a spotlight, shifts upwards, landing on the swirled crest of waves surrounding a golden tangerine. Once a gold that reflected the gleaming eye of the sun, now the aged crest is a scorched umber, a dull plate that lacks luster and the sight to watch Dongho’s first embrace.

It doesn’t matter though. What Dongho feels isn’t tradition. It’s a bloom of color, vines that root deep in his chest and tangle themselves into Aaron’s. It’s just him and his first kiss, hand in hand as if the world around them crumbles into dust that could eventually lead them to never ending happiness.

* * *

_{The Happily Ever After.}_

_Whose hand will you take, dear?_

Dongho leans against the window that watches over the courtyard. It fogs up breath by breath, and he watches with flattened eyes as it spreads like stained paint.

“You ran from your own Queen?”

Aaron’s voice resonates in time with his quick steps in the empty hall.

“And us,” Minhyun retorts as he keeps by Aaron’s side. His eyes, however, reach out towards Dongho, a muted light that wonders why the receding back of the crown prince had hurt so much.

“Dongho,” Aaron calls. “Darling—”

“Maybe,” Dongho cuts as he looks out the window, out into the empty garden that’s touched by a sunset’s glow, and his hands start fiddling with themselves, “maybe I want some more time.” His eyelashes flutter under a golden light as he nervously breathes out. “Just to learn more about you both, that’s all.”

He’s selfish, he knows.

He’s uncompromising, also known.

Aaron’s wide eyes, fingers that held on so tightly as they danced around to the mere sounds of his land gripping down onto his pants, couldn’t even pull him from Minhyun’s waiting gaze, the one fixed solely on him under the night sky.

It’d be impossible. 

When he turns his back, and he’s ready to send off the two who deserve more than the ocean waters that confine him, the two princes instead smile at him. It’s endearing, lifted corners as captivating as the soft glow on his flower buds from the evening sun. 

Aaron’s regal features curl up handsomely into a small grin, Minhyun’s eyes sweetly crinkle up into paper thin slits, and that has him feeling warmer than a summer’s night.

Dongho watches as the two share knowing looks, a million secrets and words being exchanged between them in just mere seconds, before Minhyun steps up. His chin is set into a caress by sturdy hands, pulled forward until he hits a tall body, and he’s feet to chest pressed against Minhyun.

“We’re okay with that,” Minhyun says into his ear, and the brush of soft lips against the sensitive shell of his ear has him leaning into the embrace, “as long as you appear, sweet prince.”

A hand, smaller than the ones that trace smooth paths down his jaw, caresses the dip of his waist, somehow managing to carve out its own lines despite Minhyun’s breath crawling down his neck. Aaron presses against his back, wrapping around like a vine and resting a slight chin against Dongho’s shoulder.

So this is love.

Love is the beating of two hearts against his chest. It’s the sight of Minhyun’s eyes so full that they shimmer with their obvious need to pour themselves into Dongho’s soul. It’s in the tight grip on the back of his hands as thumbs smooth over his skin. Aaron’s chest softly bumps against his with every few seconds, slowly breathing in intermingled sighs, and it swells even more, Dongho’s chest.

Dongho wants time, and he’ll get time. He’ll get forever, even, if only it rests in two pairs of hands and two chests full of infatuation for the prince that beckoned them away with just a bow and a smile.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> twt @ teacuptigr
> 
> @ 3minswriting
> 
> ʕ •̀ o •́ ʔ


End file.
